


Death By Duffel Bag

by Chrononautical



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Foggy's face when he realizes they won't, Foggy's voice when he tells Karen he thinks they'll get Matt back, Gen, Grief, Matt isn't dead, but Foggy sure thinks he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: When Foggy Nelson killed his best friend, it was with a change of clothes. As far as murders go, it’s not one that he can be prosecuted for. It’s also not something that can ever be forgiven.The Defenders disagree.





	Death By Duffel Bag

When Foggy Nelson killed his best friend, it was with a change of clothes. As far as murders go, it’s not one that he can be prosecuted for. It’s also not something that can ever be forgiven. 

Fortunately, someone out there had a sense of humor, and Foggy Nelson was going to die for his sins. Four muggers, shaking like they’re withdrawing from something. A dark alley with a flickering streetlight. Sirens wailing in the distance. Foggy coughed up his wallet, watch, and cell phone right away, babbling as he did so to keep everyone calm. 

The muggers weren’t calm. 

“Shit! Shit! Cops are coming!”

“Guys, guys, that’s just an ambulance siren.” Giving them his most charming smile, Foggy tried for a joke. “You can tell because they say, ‘owie owie owie,’ not ‘wow wow wow’. At least, that’s how my sister always told the difference. Have I told you about my sister? She dated a cop for a while. Now there was a jackass—” 

“Shoot him! He’s seen our faces. I’m not going back to jail!” 

This particular dark alley was only four blocks from Matt’s apartment. This particular crime was the sort of thing Daredevil would love to bloody his hands with. This particular victim was a partner in Nelson and Murdock. But Matt was dead, Daredevil was gone, and that partnership was long broken. All of that was Foggy’s fault, which meant there really was some justice in the world. He was going to die here. He deserved to die here. 

Suddenly, a shadowy figure dropped down on top of the man aiming a shaky .45 at Foggy. The gun went off, bullet ricocheting off the wall, knocking out a streetlight, plunging the alley into deeper darkness. The shadow—the man in the mask—flipped over the back of the gunman, knocking him out with a well placed punch to the jaw as he kicked a second mugger back into the wall. His fists blurred like a boxer working a bag as he pounded the third man into swift submission before tossing the fourth into a dumpster. The second guy was up on his feet with a knife in his hand, and he seemed to know how to use it. The shadow twisted his body, leaping into the air, flying over the knife to kick the mugger in the jaw. Man and knife dropped to the pavement, lying uselessly next to Foggy’s fallen possessions. 

Foggy blinked. 

In an instant, he was across the alley. Ignoring his attackers, he threw his arms around his savior, pulling the man close. 

“Matt! You unbelievable asshole! I thought you were dead!” Squeezing his rescuer, Foggy tried to hide his tears in the man’s shoulder. “You couldn’t pick up a phone? Shoot me an email? Send a telegram? It’s been weeks!” 

“I’m sorry.” Not Matt’s voice. 

Foggy looked up into the vigilante’s face. He was wearing a mask, but it covered his mouth, not his bright, blue eyes. Coughing, Foggy released him and stepped away. “No. My fault. Sorry. I thought you were. Thank you for saving me, Mister—uh—Iron Fist?” 

Danny Rand nodded, looking down at the muggers. “You’re welcome. I didn’t recognize you, but this is—” 

“My own damn fault for walking home alone late at night?” Stooping, Foggy collected his wallet and watch from the dirty pavement. The screen on his phone was cracked. It could be replaced. 

“Fate,” Rand said, his voice a little too intense. “You should know. I do this for him. I will protect his city. Just as he asked.” 

Foggy tried to smile. He knew what to say to that. The only thing Rand would be willing to hear. And it was even true. This is what Matt wanted. “Thank you. It helps to know he left a legacy.”

Judging by the way Rand’s eyes light up, Foggy may have just killed a second vigilante. Matt’s face lit up that way, when he realized what was in the bag. When Foggy gave him the tools to get himself killed. At least this time Foggy won’t be waiting in a police station like an idiot, thinking everything will be okay. 

Foggy does what he can for Rand. For the rest of the vigilante crowd. For Daredevil’s legacy. 

When the bad guys come after Luke Cage, Foggy is there to represent him. Cockroach is, well, a cockroach, but his lawsuit is a good one. All Foggy can do is help Cage settle it. Naturally, it isn’t the advice a vigilante wants to hear, but it’s the practical solution. At least Foggy finds a way to help him get the money. Personal appearances aren’t sexy, but they are the fastest way to monetize celebrity. For celebrities, a hundred grand can come for free. 

Of course, Foggy would have done all of that anyway. Mr. Cage is a client. He’s also one of the kindest, most genuine people Foggy’s ever met. In a quiet moment, he grips Foggy’s shoulder lightly. 

Cage said it before. Was one of the first to say it. That he was sorry for Foggy’s loss. That should have ended it. They shouldn’t have to keep bringing it up every time they meet. Every time something reminds them of Matt. Everything reminds Foggy of Matt. 

“I won’t forget him.” Luke’s voice is too soft. “He’d be happy. Knowing that we’re still fighting the good fight.” 

But that fight is easier for Luke Cage, Foggy doesn’t say. Cage has bullet proof skin. If a bomb went off and a building fell on him, Cage would be fine. All Matt ever got was the ability to hear screams, cries, and lies from four blocks away. Foggy doesn’t say it, because it isn’t true. He’s seen firsthand what Cage has to deal with. Scum like Cockroach are the reason Matt wore a mask, much as Foggy respects Cage’s decision to go without. 

“Yeah,” Foggy said. “You’ll leave quite a legacy yourself, Mister Cage. That collection of Piranah’s didn’t appear overnight.” 

Cage laughs. Still so light and gentle that Foggy can’t be angry with him. They change the subject. But it’s a real bitch. Because Matt Murdock should have a legacy, and it isn’t this. It isn’t crime fighting or beating up an abusive husband to protect a crying child. 

Matt’s legacy should be the law. Matt’s legacy will be the law. Foggy will make sure of it. He hasn’t been at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz for long, but he’s making real money. The student loans are disappearing and there’s a slowly building nest egg that was earmarked for an apartment bigger than a postage stamp. It isn’t for that anymore. 

The Matthew Murdock Scholarship Fund. One student at a time will get a free ride through Columbia Law. All they’ll have to do to earn it will be read some of Matt’s papers. Hear some of his arguments. Remember him. Remember Matt, and what he would have done for the law if he lived long enough to do it. 

If a moron didn't wave red horns in front of him like the flag at a bullfight. 

Foggy doesn’t care if he has to live on ramen and water for the next ten years to make it happen. He won’t have to. Matt destroyed the curve in every course. Their class will remember him. They’ll throw money at the fund. Out of guilt. Pretending to remember the blind boy fondly. Maybe some of them will even mean it. 

It isn’t enough. Foggy goes to Josie’s. Finding a way to sleep isn't wasting money. Matt’s legacy shouldn’t be money. 

Matt’s legacy was supposed to be precedent. The first time he quoted Thurgood Marshall from memory, Foggy knew it. That one day another brilliant young law student would quote Matthew Murdock. Nelson and Murdock was only ever step one of the dream. Someday, people other than Foggy were going to notice how good Matt was. The way Matt could judge guilt and innocence, right and wrong, just and unlawful in the span of seconds. His mind was incredible: able to parse the most difficult legal questions almost instantly. He belonged on the bench. He’d make a federal court by the time he was fifty.

If he had a friend who didn’t enable his most dangerous addiction, maybe Matt would be there already. Instead of buried beneath the rock and rubble of Midland Circle. 

The barstool next to Foggy rocked back as a force of nature landed in it. “Barkeep!” Jones called out. “A double of your cheapest whiskey. He’s buying.” A leather-clad elbow knocked into Foggy’s ribs. 

When Josie raised an eyebrow at him, Foggy nodded. 

Jones swallowed the first sip of whiskey like a pill. After the second slug, though, she cleared her throat and savored the remainder. “Franklin Nelson,” she said. “Buying drinks for alcoholics. That’s sort of your M.O., right?” 

Pain split Foggy open, stealing the air from his lungs and doubling him over the filthy bartop. It was worse than being shot. Worse than a bomb blast. Worse than a broken heart. It was no more than he deserved. 

“I guess it is.” 

Jessica Jones smiled like the edge of a knife. Foggy remembered the way Matt’s teeth looked, when he grinned with a mouthful of blood. Some people liked being hurt. Some people liked hurting. “Buy me another,” she said, tilting her chin up like a dare. 

Foggy told Josie to leave the bottle. 

Jones poured herself another double and raised her glass to his. 

Foggy took the dare. “To alcoholism,” he said, clinking their glasses together. 

Snorting, Jones said, “To not drinking alone.” 

Alone or not, she drank quite a bit before speaking again. Foggy didn’t mind. He wasn’t looking for company. 

“That’s the thing about buying drinks for alcoholics,” she said, more to the bottle than to Foggy. “Alcoholics don’t need anyone to buy them booze. Alcoholics find booze. Hell. We steal it from bums on the subway if we have to. You can’t stop that from happening any more than you can stop traffic jams on the turnpike. What you can do is drink with us. Let us know we’re not alone.” 

“There are ways.” Foggy’s hand was too tight around his glass. His knuckles were white, and the cold ice burned his palm. “Friends—family can intervene. People get help. Happens every day.”

“Bullshit.” Jones was looking at him again, not the bottle. Ready for a fight. “Murdock was always going to be at the bottom of that pit with born-again-barbie. He loved her. Or he was guilty about the way things went the first time around. Or he felt responsible for stopping her. Don’t ask me. All I know is, he was always going after her. Whether or not Luke and I went along to rescue Danny.”

“Ms. Jones—” 

“Listen up, lawyer. There was no way for you to stop him. Some people can’t be saved. It’s a shit metaphor anyway. You didn’t give a drunk a drink, you gave him a cab ride. You gave him fucking kevlar. You gave him the only chance he ever had at getting out of that pit alive, because he was always going to be down there. At least you let him know that he had something to come back to.” 

Foggy swallowed hard. Then he took a sip of his whiskey. 

“Okay.” A wad of bills hit the table. “I said what I came to say.” 

“Thought I was buying.” Foggy inspected the money, then stared up at Jessica. “Miss Jones, this is ten thousand dollars.” 

Shrugging, she put her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. Looked down at the bottle on the table. “My contribution to the Murdock Scholarship for Blind Kids or whatever you’re calling it.” 

“For law students with a physical disability,” Foggy corrected, still staring at the money. “I can’t—”

“It’s clean,” she said quickly. “Fucking shady, maybe. A trophy wife gave me a bonus for finding something that would let her break her prenup. I felt like splurging.” 

“How did you know?” Foggy hasn’t told anyone about the scholarship yet. Nothing is written down. The money has its own account so he won’t treat it like personal savings, but it certainly isn’t labeled.

“Hey.” Jones sounded genuinely offended. “I’m a shit person, but I’m a great P.I.” She shrugged again. Didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s good. People should remember him. He was a douchey, self-righteous lawyer, but he got me out of lockup faster than Hogarth ever did.” 

Foggy laughed. He wiped his eyes. Oh. She wasn’t looking at him because he was crying again. 

“Okay.” Jones snagged the bottle and turned toward the door. “Bye, Foggy.” 

Foggy doesn’t manage to say goodbye before she’s gone. In fact, it takes him more than a little while to stop crying. Josie does him the courtesy of pretending not to notice.


End file.
